Mr. Smith?

By Frank Heiberger

Ron Smith wakes up in the hospital with memories that abruptly stop ten years before. Even more bewilderingly, everyone is telling him he is Stan Craftsman—a fact that seems indisputable when he looks in the mirror and sees a face he doesn’t recognize.

So which man is he?

With the help of Stan’s devoted wife, Belinda, Ron sets out to unravel the mystery behind his own identity...but soon discovers that he may not have been the kind of man worth remembering at all. Both the FBI and a Mexican drug family are after him for the $20 million that disappeared into untraceable offshore accounts around the same time he did.

The FBI suspects Stan is the engineer of a brilliantly evil plot. But Belinda’s sister’s off-the-wall proposal brings a strange sense of relief to both Ron and Belinda. The unsettling possibility that he possesses the body of Stan would mean that rather than being a stone-cold criminal, Ron is, in fact, dead.

A suspense-filled journey that takes you from Chicago to Minneapolis to the mountains of southern Colorado, Mr. Smith? has plenty of twists, turns and surprises in store.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Heiberger
• Release date: Mar 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310960192

Frank Heiberger

Frank Heiberger grew up in Chicago as the middle child of seven. Writing since the age of twelve, he went on to work as a market researcher, computer consultant, computer store manager, industrial tool salesman, real estate attorney, and data analyst—but through it all, he never stopped writing.He currently lives with his daughter in Des Plaines, Illinois, where he enjoys tending his indoor garden, entertaining, and investigating paranormal activity.

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Mr. Smith?

By Frank Heiberger

Copyright 2014 Frank Heiberger

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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To my daughter, Beth, who probably isn’t sure of who I am now and then…

Table of Contents

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Eight

About the Author

Other Titles

Contact

Day One

The headache was insane. He ached all over, but the ringing in his ears was the worst pain he’d ever had.

Stan? The voice of a woman. But his name was Ron, so he ignored it.

He took a deep breath and stirred his body, fluttering his eyelids open. Everything really did hurt. The dull blue wall of a hospital room came into focus and the realization that he was in a hospital bed flooded him with fear and confusion. What the hell was he doing in the hospital? What had happened to him?

Honey, lie still, it was the same woman’s voice. I’ll buzz for the nurse.

A brunette woman, early to middle thirties, set a hand briefly on his shoulder then reached for the call button. Had she been calling him Stan? Who was she and what did she want?

You’ve been in a car accident, honey, she told him. Some guy ran the red light and smashed right into you. You hit your head on the driver’s side window.

That would explain the headache, Ron thought. And probably misunderstanding whatever it was she said at first. Her left hand was back on his shoulder. Her right came across to catch his left wrist as he began reaching for his head, startling and angering him.

No, no, she said gently. The IVs are in that hand.

He sensed them then, the needle in the vein in the back of his hand. He looked down and saw the line running into him and the anger disappeared. Whoever she was, she was there to help him. Maybe they did that with all unconscious patients. He used his right hand to gingerly feel the compress wrapped around his forehead.

A tall Amazon of a nurse hustled into the room and began checking the gadgets and readouts. She checked the lines and the connections and the drip of his IV. She seemed to check everything but him, Ron felt. Finally she turned a stone cold, all business expression to him and gave him a quick once over.

Everything okay? asked the woman.

Yes, the nurse said, then hustled toward the door. I’ll let Dr. Singh know he’s awake.

Dr. Singh? he asked the woman. That wasn’t his regular doctor.

This is the ICU at Northwestern, she told him. Dr. Singh has your case.

Where’s Dr. Evans? That was his regular doctor. Even in an ICU, his regular doctor would be involved.

Who? she asked and he realized she was still touching him. He wanted to shift away, but he also didn’t want to move. His head was starting to pound. Honey, take it easy. You were unconscious for almost eighteen hours.

What?

Do you remember any of it?

No. I don’t remember any accident. What the hell was going on here? He was beginning to feel uneasy.

You were coming home, late as usual from this job, she told him, watching his eyes for any sense of memory. The guy behind you told the cops that the light was green and you were all just cruising along, when the pickup came flying through the intersection from the left and plowed into you. One of those sticky accelerators or something, apparently, because he wasn’t drunk or texting or anything. He broadsided you at about thirty-five or forty. Caved in the whole left side of your Accord.

Accord? He drove a 5 Series. Just what in the blessed hell was going on here? Who was this woman? He was about to ask, when the Indian doctor was suddenly at the foot of the bed.

Well, we were beginning to wonder, when you’d join us, he said in an attempt at bedside manner. Ron was in no mood for it now. Especially since they were letting this strange woman stay in his room. How are you feeling, Mr. Craftsman?

Who? he asked. His name was Smith. Did they have him confused with someone else? How could they do that? The accident? Had it been that bad? So bad they couldn’t recognize him?

He put his hand to his face. But other than the wrapping on his forehead, all he felt were a few bandaids. The right side of his face felt completely fine.

What’s the matter? the woman asked. Do you want a mirror? It’s just a few cuts and bruises.

So how could they be confusing him with this Craftsman person? Or were the charts mixed up? That idea was even more frightening.

There’s a mirror in that drawer, the doctor was telling the woman. Then he returned his attention to Ron. You’re a pretty lucky man, Mr. Craftsman. Usually that kind of accident does a lot of damage to one’s face and body.

He opened his mouth to protest being called the wrong name, when the woman handed him a small mirror.

My na-, his voice caught in his throat and his muscles went hot and numb. The face in the mirror wasn’t badly banged up. In fact, it was probably going to heal without any lasting marks. But it wasn’t his face. Someone else was looking back at him from the mirror.

That was impossible. His entire body felt weak and flushed warm with adrenalin from the utter shock. This had to be a trick. This whole thing had to be a trick. But how could they be pulling it off? And just why the hell would you go to such lengths? This was ridiculous. It was impossible.

He touched his face and a hand in the mirror touched the other face. Was it some sort of flat screen? Was someone matching his actions? He touched different parts of his face, tried moving his hand quickly, stuck out his tongue, blinked his eyes separately. The face in the mirror mimicked him perfectly. This was not possible.

A dream. It had to be a dream. Some wild fiction from the corner of his mind. That was the only way any of it made sense.

So now he would wake up, right? Once you knew it was a dream, didn’t you wake up? Or were you able to take control of it? Which was it? He couldn’t remember. But what did it matter now that he’d figured it out? This was a dream and it wasn’t going to last much longer. Dreams never did. He wondered if he’d still know he was dreaming, when it morphed into something else.

He noticed that the doctor and the woman had fallen silent, watching him. The doctor looked concerned in a professional way. The woman just looked worried, and a little scared.

Stan? Are you okay? she asked uncertainly.

What a weird dream, he thought, about having been in a car accident and waking up to people that thought he was someone named Stan Craftsman. This was incredibly bizarre and so real. He felt every ache and pain. He heard every hum, whir and click of the machinery around him. He felt the firm mattress underneath him and the woman’s warm hand on his shoulder. He smelled the antiseptics and the sourly sweet scents of medications or air freshener or whatever it was they used in hospitals. This was the most real and most bizarre dream he’d ever had.

And why wasn’t it ending? How long could a dream go on, once you were alert enough to know you were dreaming?

Honey? the woman prompted.

I’ve never even known a Stan Craftsman, he said, thinking out loud in the dream. How in the world did he come up with that name? What had he been doing to trigger this kind of scenario in his dreams? The last thing I remember was meeting Alan for coffee. We needed to talk about the Salazar account.

Alan, the woman asked. Who’s Alan?

My supervisor, Ron answered. Who are you anyway?

Oh God, she gasped in fear. He felt her start shaking. Oh my God! No! No!

Easy, easy, said the doctor, coming over to put a hand on her shoulder. Relax. Take a deep breath. Don’t panic.

Don’t panic?! she panicked. What do you mean don’t panic? He’s got amnesia or something and I’m not supposed to panic?

Amnesia is a temporary condition, the doctor assured her. That was a nasty whack on the head, he took.

I know, but, oh God! What if…? Whatever thought she had, she decided to keep to herself.

But it was rather obvious. What if it’s worse? Ron completed the thought. Man, this is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.

You’re not dreaming, Mr. Craftsman, said the doctor. What was his name again? You took a severe blow to the head and it seems to have upset your memories.

My name isn’t Craftsman. It’s Ron Smith.

Who is Ron Smith?

I am.

He must be someone from your past, the doctor told him. Singh, that was it. Dr. Singh. Think, tell me about Ron Smith.

The woman had stepped back and was hugging herself in anxiety, while working to maintain her self-control. Dr. Singh was at his side now. The dream was just getting weirder. Why wasn’t it ending?

I’m Ron Smith.

Then tell me about yourself.

I’m a broker at FB Investments. We do retirement and investment planning for executives and others making a million or more a year. Alan Leighly is my supervisor. I was headed out to meet him for coffee this, or I guess yesterday morning. There was something odd about one of the accounts and I wanted to tell him about it away from everyone else.

Why was that necessary?

He suggested it, Ron told him. He was worried if someone overheard us they’d get the wrong idea.

That was yesterday?

I guess, if I’ve been here for eighteen hours, Ron answered. For whatever that matters in a dream.

You’re not dreaming, Dr. Singh pointed out again.

Then why are you calling me Stan Craftsman?

Because that’s who you are, Dr. Singh answered. And this is your wife, Belinda.

Belinda? That’s an unusual name.

That’s what you said, when we met, she told him, gradually regaining her composure.

It was also the name of a cute singer from an old, girl band, Ron pointed out. The Bangles or something like that. I remember seeing an old video. So it’s a name I already knew. And Singh is like Smith, very common.

You’re not dreaming, Mr. Craftsman, Dr. Singh reiterated. You are very much awake and in ICU at Northwestern Hospital with a head injury.

Oh, so I’m imagining being Ron Smith?

Yes. It’s called Confabulation, Dr. Singh told him and that brought Ron’s mind to a halt. Head injury. False memories. Was this real?

But I remember everything, Ron told him. I remember things all the way back to grammar school.

It’s not a loss of all memories, Dr. Singh explained. But a substitution of imagined ones for real ones. I have no doubt that you believe you are Ron Smith. What we have to do is pick through these false memories so you can literally clear your mind. Let’s start with this investment company.

FB Investments and Retirement, Ron repeated. Founded in 1997 by Franklin Black. The office is in River North.

Telephone number?

Ron gave it and Dr. Singh plugged it into his phone and called it. A moment later, a woman’s voice pleasantly answered, FB Investments. How may we help you?

Startled, Dr. Singh stammered for a moment, not having expected the number to be real. Hello, this is Dr. Adita Singh at Northwestern Hospital. I needed to verify employment of Ron Smith for insurance purposes.

Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor, she told him. We have no one by that name working here. Would you like to speak to the Office Manager?

Uh, no. That won’t be necessary. Thank you. He pressed End and glanced back at Belinda, before returning his attention to his patient. So there is an FB Investments. But they don’t know who you are.

What? That’s impossible, Ron replied.

I thought the memories were false, Belinda said. How could it be real?

Maybe you applied for a job with them at one time, Dr. Singh replied.

Or did a job for them, Belinda added. Stan is a Forensic Accountant.

There you go, Dr. Singh said. Maybe the job involved the finances of a Ron Smith.

Ron shook his head. We’d never let anyone look at a client’s records. Not without a warrant.

Maybe that’s what they told you. Remember, you don’t work there.

Maybe you did before we met, Belinda offered. I don’t remember you ever mentioning them. But maybe you never talked about it.

How long have you known each other?

Eight years, she said. Stan was twenty-seven, when we met.

Dr. Singh nodded. So, yeah. That’s enough time before you met for you to have worked for them or applied for a job with them. Funny that you were able to recall the phone number so easily.

That’s because I work there, Ron said.

They just told me different.

I don’t know what to tell you then. What was there to say? Ron didn’t get it? Something was really, really wrong here.

Look, Mr. Craftsman, Dr. Singh explained. You’ve suffered a severe blow to the head. The Xrays and MRIs did not show any serious injury, just a moderate concussion, but given our discussion here, you need to accept that things have gotten a little jumbled up in there. Not to make light of it, of course, but that’s a fair assessment of what’s going on here. The best thing to do is for you to rest. This could clear itself up with a good night’s sleep. Rebooting your brain, so to speak. But to be on the safe side, I’ll have a Neurologist have a look at you, just to rule out anything the tests we did may not have shown.

But I remember my whole life, Ron protested. I don’t understand this.

Which is to be expected, the doctor said. I’ll be back later. I’m going to go order that consult now. Just relax and let things come back to you, Mr. Craftsman.

Singh left and Ron was left staring at the woman who was the wife of the man they said he was. She was anxious, arms folded over her chest, face tense and drawn. The worry in her eyes was almost palpable. Whoever Stan Craftsman was, she really loved him.

You can’t remember anything? she asked after a few moments of silence.

A frustrated sigh burst like a derisive laugh. He remembered everything, and he told her, Yes. I remember everything about me, Ron Smith. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m Ron Smith.

No, she said. You are Stan Craftsman. This head injury has made you think you’re Ron Smith.

If it was a head injury, then why do I know my past all the way to my childhood?

Those are your own memories, Belinda told him. You’ve just gotten your identity mixed up in them.

Look. What is this all about? Ron wanted to know. What is going on here?

The doctor just told you.

Is this some kind of gag or something? Because if it is, I’m not amused.

Stan, she said trying to be firm without angering him. You’re in the hospital. You smashed the side of your head in a car accident. Why is it so hard to accept what the doctor tells you?

Because it doesn’t make any sense.

And this being some elaborate hoax makes more sense? she asked and he didn’t have an answer for that. They did play jokes on each other at work now and then, but nothing on this kind of scale. This was no joke.

And it was no dream either. A dream should have ended by now or morphed into something else. It wouldn’t have stayed this real for this long. No. He was really in a hospital. He’d really been in an accident or something. And either he or they were really confused.

It did make sense that it was him. The headache and the body aches were proof enough of his injuries. It did make more sense that his brain had been addled.

But it seems so certain to me that I’m Ron Smith, he told her. I can remember everything.

So tell me, she told him, sitting on the bed at his feet. And I’ll tell you when you’re telling me real memories that you already told me about.

Okay, he agreed. That seemed reasonable. If he was this other person, then who better to recognize his history than his wife. I was born in Minneapolis, he began and told her the story of Ron Smith from grammar school through college and into his career that brought his rising star to FB Investments.

As he spoke, her brow furrowed deeper and deeper and the concern grew stronger in her eyes. Not once did she stop him and tell him that he’d already told her about anything he was saying. When he finished, the tears were barely held back in her eyes. It wasn’t just sadness. It was the look of despair starting. None of his history, it was clear, was anything she had already known. The worst part, he had seen in her face, was Michelle Redding, his real girlfriend.

She didn’t know who he was, and he knew nothing about her. They were strangers, wearing wedding bands they had supposedly exchanged.

Are you alright? he asked. He didn’t need to know her to be moved by the sorrow on her face.

She didn’t say anything. She just shook her head slowly as she bowed her face, shaking the tears loose.

I’m sorry, he said.

That’s okay, Stan, she replied, turning her wet face bravely up to him. We’ll work through this. I don’t know how this can be, how you can have such completely new memories. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll get through this.

What did you say to that? He wondered. Clearly she loved her husband and the circumstances pointed to that being him. But it was impossible for him to fathom it.

A round, mountainous physician with a thick beard, black as pitch strolled in. With his size, even strolling could appear ominous.

Hello, he said cheerfully with a cherubic smile. I’m Dr. Melvin Borowitz from Neurology. They tell me you’ve got quite a bump on your head, Mr. Craftsman.

That’s the only thing we’re certain of, Ron tried being humorous. He didn’t know what else to do.

Well, let’s have a look at you, Dr. Borowitz said and ran through the usual series of tests: flashlight to check the pupillary responses, following his finger with his eyes only, standing on one leg as best he could with being banged up, closing his eyes and trying not to sway and fall over. When he was done and Ron was back in the bed, Dr. Borowitz checked the electronic charts and made